"It's been 2 months since my best friend… Sherlock Holmes… committed suicide." John thought as he stared at the front door of 221B Baker Street.

"And this will be the first time I have been back to this house," he closed his eyes "Our house."

His hands trembled as he pulled his key out of his pocket and went to open the door. If he had the choice he would have never returned here, this place had too many memories of the man he had once called his best friend. But he couldn't sleep on his sister's sofa forever, they had never gotten along and with John in his depressed state she didn't know how to deal with him so she had to kick him out.

The only option John had was to return here. Mrs Hudson had agreed to let John pay the same amount of rent as he had been paying when Sherlock still lived here.

He walked into the building and up to his old apartment. Walking into the living room was almost too much to bear for him; his knees buckled and he fell to the floor. Everything was still exactly the same as he had last seen it, Sherlock's desk still a total mess of paper from the last case he was trying to solve, the smiley face on the wall riddled with bullet holes still leered down at him and the kitchen was still full of all of his bizarre science equipment. The only difference was a thick layer of dust which stuck to everything and hung in the air moving as he did.

"What did you think it would look like you fool?" He whispered to himself as he buried his face into his hands trying not to cry. A part of John had hoped things would look a little different as if somehow Sherlock had returned and taken some of his belongings and then fled. But no. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He will never return.

John couldn't accept this.

He stood up, suddenly in a military straight fashion and decided to do something proactive. He pulled open the curtains causing dust to swirl in the air. He ignored it and then moved to start tidying the flat. He tried not to think as he went. Just put one foot in front of the other, take each task as it comes and clean the house. "What would Sherlock make of all this dust?" he shook his head at the thought and continued cleaning.

John didn't know where the time had gone, before he knew it the street outside had become dark and still. He checked the time on his phone, "3:35am… when did it get this late?" he mumbled to himself and started to wander to his bedroom in a bit of a daze. He got a shook when he realised he had walked straight into Sherlock's room without even thinking. He froze not sure what to do; his bed looked hardly slept in, though that was Sherlock, he never slept if he could help it.

Without thinking John walked over to Sherlock's bed and got into it. He knew this was weird, him and his friend had never been romantically inclined, and if Sherlock was still alive he would never even come in his room. But he missed him so much, the bed had a faint Sherlock scent to it and this sent John over the edge. He had managed to hold back really crying over Sherlock's death all this time but he couldn't take it now, he broke down.

"Please Sherlock one more miracle," he pleaded with the darkness, "just for me," he sobbed harder,

"Don't… be…dead," he wrapped his arms around his chest as if to hold himself together. "I know I've asked over and over but please… for me…" he whispered and his breath hitched in his throat and uncontrollable sobbing took over.

That night John's sleep was riddled with horrible images of Sherlock's suicide, over and over again he fell and over and over again John failed to save him. He woke suddenly screaming "Sherlock!" looking franticly around the unfamiliar room before he calmed down and started to cry again. This was the start of his nightmares. Every night he would see Sherlock fall and every time be unable to save the man he had come to realise was the only person he couldn't live without.

6 months have passed since the great consulting detective fell out of John's life. He had gotten into a routine to get him through the day and night. Every morning when he woke up he forced himself out of bed and made breakfast, but he always made two plates. Just in case.

Then he would take a shower and after sit in his arm chair staring at Sherlock's occasionally he would sit there trying to persuade him to come back like he is in the same room.

He would then leave for work, but always leaving the hall light on and a key under the mat. Just in case.

Work was tedious and boring, and made even worse that he now worked at Bart's hospital, the same place where Sherlock had died. It was the only place he could find a job, and he needed the money.

Every day was the same. Nothing every changed, except his nightmares. They were getting worse. John now felt he could have saved the detective, and the only reason Sherlock had to die was because of him.

But this wasn't the worse part of John's new outlook, he was starting to doubt Sherlock. He would spend most nights arguing with himself, shouting and screaming that Sherlock was not a fraud and then change his mind, start on a rampage through the apartment to try and find evidence to prove Sherlock had fabricated any of the crimes he had ever worked on. But he found nothing and would always wind up wrapped up in ball of Sherlock's bedding and sobbing.

9 months have passed and John was starting to give up on Sherlock ever coming back.

He had stopped laying out 2 plates in the morning, had removed the key from under the mat and never left the light on. He was truly beaten by the death of his best friend and knew there was only one way to fix the pain.

"Almost one year has passed since he left me here, tomorrow will be the anniversary of his death," John spoke to the empty living room.

"I have something special planed for tonight, I won't have to suffer this pain anymore" he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before stepping out of his seat and heading to work.

That day at work he handed in his notice and told them he wouldn't be coming back. He already had what he needed from the hospital, and it was back in the apartment waiting for him.

He managed to make it home before breaking down that night. He sat in his chair, with the syringe which would end his life in front of him and next to that his phone sat. He thought to himself that surely if Sherlock was still alive he would somehow stop him from doing this.

But he stared at his phone until 2am and nothing happened. He just watched, motionless, hoping something would happen. But nothing did. "Well I suppose the pain will be over soon" he whispered, with a tear trickling down his face "I'll be able to see you soon Sherlock."

He rolled his shirt sleeve up and picked up the syringe from the table.

The needle pushed into his vein with ease and precision from years of medical training he knew he had the right spot. The liquid in the syringe was a much higher dosage than any human could survive but John didn't plan to survive this.

As the plunger went down John closed his eyes feeling the liquid make its way into his blood stream. Once it was all in he pulled out the syringe. He knew he had only minutes left. He picked up his phone and sent one final text to Sherlock's old phone number:

'I've done it Sherlock, See you soon - JW'

John held it tight in his hand, not wanting to let go of his only line to Sherlock but as he drifted out of consciousness it fell to the floor. He closed his eyes feeling the chemical taking effect.

And that was it. John was gone, all life had left him and he was free from his pain.

Moments after John had passed on his phone vibrated and a message appeared on the screen:

'Open the door John, I'm home - SH'